Thursday, 20 November 2014

The Master's Touch

By Joyce Benedict

All things, claim the poet,
linked to each other
by unseen holy threads
if we but touch of a flower
we trouble a star.

Awaiting inspiration to pen a poem
I gaze out on to little deck
pregnant with flowers who
share space with a lone tomato
clinging to it’s mother vine.
when all are plucked tomorrow will I
trouble a star from afar?

lost in thought
I trust, await, divine inspiration.

dusk descends.
white, billowing clouds
blanketing the setting sun’s rays
part revealing a brilliant glow
of transcendent beauty.
an extra breath is drawn
as this exquisite loveliness
bathes my deck to behold
a canvas of other worldliness.

it was as if an unseen artist from above
with water, palate, brush and,
the flourish of a master’s touch
had spread a voluptuous wash
of muted, iridescence gold over all.
Homer penned his
Aurora of the rosy fingered dawn,
the Hudson Valley painters
their own particular glow.
Even Tintoretto’s palate pales to this
Master’s touch.

I step on to deck to be bathed, blessed
by such Holy light.
I have my poem.
the stars now thrill; not troubled,
as I, to my own joy.


[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Comments (3) | Permalink | Email this post

Wednesday, 19 November 2014

Love in Paris

By Antonia Albany of Antonia's Senior Moments

In 1962 my father was a historian for NATO in Paris. I was 14. Do you remember being 14? At that time, I was a young girl awakening to the opposite sexm. Mon dieu.

How fortunate I was to not be saddled by too many other American friends hanging around who might judge, be jealous or critical of how I was blossoming into this new part of life. I was free to roam the neighborhood and be cool mostly with kids my age from other countries.

Needless to say, "relationships" didn’t last long in those days in Paris. At 14 I doubt relationships last that long anywhere.

There were no expectations of my behavior and I could experiment with communication and flirting all the while using some form of nearly unrecognizable language to impress my European friends.

This was pretty dangerous as I wasn’t the greatest in putting together an interesting sentence in English, let alone French. And, in fact, I got in trouble more than once.

One day I was looking for my German boyfriend, Ollie. I came upon a group of my French friends who I thought might know where he was. As I approached Suzanne, Nicole and a cute guy, Rene, I pointed to the 10-story apartment building we were standing next to and said in a quizzical voice, “Ollie?” To which response Rene scooped me up and began carrying me into the building foyer.

The girls cracked up. I guess my question had sounded exactly like “au lit” which is pronounced exactly as the name I had said and means "to the bed" in French.

From that point on, the majority of my young "relationships" consisted of holding hands with some sign language thrown in when necessary.


[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Comments (3) | Permalink | Email this post

Tuesday, 18 November 2014

Over the Hill

By Marc Leavitt of Marc Leavitt's Blog

In the summer of 1992, I started to get restless at work.

I knew the signs; I’d been there before.

After three years as executive director of an educational foundation in New York City, I was bored.

I had just turned 52. Four years into my second marriage, with a newborn adopted son, I decided to move on. Although I was successful at my current job, I was a veteran reporter and editor for newspapers and magazines, and I missed the work; I wanted a new challenge and a better paycheck.

When my annual salary review came up in early November, my boss gave me a raise, a pat on the back, smiled and told me, “You’re doing a great job.”

Blind-sided.

Right before Christmas, I got an internal memo: “As of Jan. 1, 1993, your employment with _____, will be terminated. We wish you every success in your future endeavors.”

The last quarter of the recession of 1992 was highlighted by a lot of red ink; non-profits were luxuries the Lords of Commerce could do without and the staff took a 50 percent job cut from the top on down.

At first, I was largely unconcerned. I had fantastic contacts with the heads of companies as well as lots of decision-makers lower down the chain of command.

I had an excellent resume and I had been planning to leave anyway. I took the board of directors’ decision as a not-unwelcome nudge in the direction of new and better opportunities.

When reality tossed a bucket of ice water in my face, I began to network first with the CEOs in my direct sphere of influence and then made contact farther down the chain.

I redid my resume, cutting out the first 10 years of employment and began to send it out to targeted people and job offers culled from The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal and a host of professional magazines and journals. And I networked with everybody I met, from the clerk at the convenience store to acquaintances at social events.

Over the weeks and months and years ahead, not waiting for the phone to ring, this is what I did:

I wrote freelance articles for trade magazines, expanded my network by joining professional societies and the Rotary Club, ran for and was elected to the township council.

I joined a real estate agency, a friend’s public relations firm, sold men’s clothing at Macy’s, telemarketed, sold cruise vacations and temped for United Way.

Finally, I got a low-level administrative job with the state. I stayed there until I turned 70.

During the job search, I went on fewer than a dozen face-to-face interviews in my field; none of them led to an offer. I had three strikes against me: I was too experienced, too expensive and too old.


[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Comments (4) | Permalink | Email this post

Monday, 17 November 2014

He Did Not Look Like a King

By Carl Hansen

During the 1976 bi-centennial, the King of Sweden was one of several foreign dignitaries who visited the United States but the only one who came to our small town in Kansas.

The town was Lindsborg, founded by Swedish immigrants and well known for its “Swedishness.” It was also home to Bethany College where I was a member of the faculty, teaching religion and philosophy. And above all, it was home for our family of six.

As you can imagine, the idea of the King of Sweden coming to central Kansas was a big deal for our community and its population of circa 2000. Along with sprucing up the town and making plans for entertaining the King during his time among us, excitement really began to heat up when people in the community reported seeing men in suits, wearing reflective sun-glasses, walking the route the King’s motorcade would take in a few days.

Our town was accustomed to visitors but these were clearly “official” in their dress and demeanor, but that did not hinder locals from asking who they were and why they were in our little town.

The day of the king’s visit brought clear skies and sunshine and soon people began to gather along the main street through town and at the place where the king was scheduled to speak.

This was a park filled with historic buildings including the Swedish Pavilion brought to Lindsborg from the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis. The pavilion once housed the art department at Bethany but was later moved to its current location on the south side of Lindsborg.

Our family, decked out in the Swedish costumes many of us wore on special occasions to celebrate our heritage, gathered near the pavilion. Our two youngest children decided the chairs we found were too far from where the king would appear, so they made their way to the very front of the crowd just under the ropes that separated where people were sitting from the pavilion itself.

As the time of the King’s arrival drew near, a buzz went through the crowd: he had been delayed. We later learned he had been skiing in Aspen and the drive to Denver’s airport took longer than expected.

And then, to make matters worse, shortly after leaving Denver headed for Salina, Kansas, the plane developed engine problems and had to turn back.

Finally, safely on a different plane, he was on his way and soon news was relayed that his entourage had left Salina and was headed for Lindsborg.

Those who had stood patiently waiting on Main Street got only a glimpse of the king as the police-escorted series of cars whizzed through the town and its sole blinking yellow traffic light in the center of Lindsborg.

But disappointment was in store for those of us waiting at the pavilion as well for although we were able to see him, impeccably dressed in a three-piece gray suit, we did not get to hear him speak. Apparently he had picked up a case of laryngitis while in Aspen, so after greetings from the Governor of Kansas and the Mayor of Lindsborg were completed, one of the king’s aides read the kings speech.

And then, as quickly as they had arrived, they were gone, headed to the Bethany Campus for a VIP lunch followed by excerpts from Handel’s Messiah by members of the Messiah Chorus who had been recruited for the day.

But if the crowds along Main Street and those wanting to hear the King speak were disappointed, none of that could compare to the disappointment on the face of our six-year old Amy when we were reunited as everyone headed for their homes.

It did not matter one bit that he was late and certainly not that he did not speak. Her disappointment came simply because “he did not look like a king.”

In all those books we had read to her over the years, kings wore opulent, ermine-trimmed robes and appeared with crown on their heads and a scepter in their hands. This King was far too ordinary to create excitement for her. A three-piece gray suit — even though it may have cost as much as I made in two or three months as a professor — simply did not fill the bill.

Sometimes dreams don’t come true. Sometimes what we look for arrives in packages we don’t expect. But maybe such disappointments are life lessons we need to learn, painful though they may be.


[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Comments (5) | Permalink | Email this post

Friday, 14 November 2014

My Sweet Bird of Youth

By Wendl Kornfeld

During the summer I was about 10 years old, a baby robin fell from its nest in our backyard. Its mother fretfully hopped around it then fled when she saw my mother approach.

My mother, who was raised on a farm, talked to the nervous parent like one mom to another reassuring her that we’d do everything possible to protect this baby who couldn’t fly yet.

To keep wandering neighborhood cats away, at night we put the little bird in a huge wooden bird-breeding cage given to us by my aunt. As days went by, we were convinced that Mama Bird trusted us because each morning we returned the baby (now named Rollo) to the lawn and she’d swoop down to flutter and chatter alongside him.

Meanwhile, I dug up the garden every day to get worms and Rollo would open his gullet wide and greedy for each feeding which I announced by whistling the same two-note call so Rollo would know it was me.

I was delighted with his excited response and he grew comfortable being handled by me. When the garden failed to produce any more worms, we bought cans of very cheap dog food and found that Rollo was equally happy with this menu.

We gave Mama and Rollo plenty of opportunities to bond and communicate every day during daylight hours. After a couple weeks, it was with great joy Rollo was able to fly short distances with his mother.

He’d take off for a group of nearby trees and we wouldn’t see him for hours. Then I’d whistle that two-tone call a few times and – whoosh! - suddenly a young robin was on my shoulder!

I tried not to think about my parents’ warnings that soon Rollo would not return; he would be free and wild as he was always meant to be.

One twilight, I took my customary place under the trees and whistled over and over. Over and over, until my mouth was dry. I cried a little when I realized that my little friend wouldn’t come back anymore but knew in my heart that this was as it should be.

And every time I saw a robin in our yard over the next few years, I wondered - was that my Rollo?


[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Comments (11) | Permalink | Email this post

Thursday, 13 November 2014

Taking a Chance

By Clifford Rothband

I write about my life's experiences, as truthfully as my memory allows.

It seems that I bought a race horse named Pompano Penny. As a yearling, she hadn't raced yet. We bought a couple of horse's at auction, including Pompano Sam, a most beautiful colt, black, stocky and tall with four white socks and a white blaze.

We thought Sam would be a natural trotter. Penny was a chestnut foal bred as a pacer. Sad to say both horses died before the year was over and never got to the races.

Sam got what was called strangles. Penny developed a cancer on her back. Both horses found there end at Lion Country Safari in South Florida. I'll leave the morbid details out but if a horse is insured, they might pay off, but insurance is expensive. If a horse does ever make it big, I have heard they bury only the horses head.

Now at the end of that year in the early 1970s, I took a tax loss of about $18,000 and got a notice from the IRS that one could not take a loss for three consecutive years in a five year period. And I was to bring any pertinent bills to the IRS office on North Federal Highway in Pompano Beach Florida.

My accountant said just take the loss, it wasn't worth his time and effort to fight the ruling.

I had to go alone to the IRS office and of course my demeanor was shot. I obviously felt sad inside and beat up but I dressed nice in a white shirt and long pants, nice leather brown boots and a string tie. I figured a horseman or trainer should at least show some dignity in front of a government agent. In spite of my own CPA who said I was a loser.

I had reported on time and was told to sit in the waiting area and would be called after a while. So here I am with a broken ego but a smile on my face.

There are a few other folks sitting around and talking and drinking coffee. This one guy sits down next to me, says his name is Larry and asks me why I am here today?

He is a thin man, looked like a typical professional, wearing a white shirt with thin, vertical, blue stripes, gray slacks and a red bow tie. My first thought that maybe he is another accountant looking to pick up some work.

So I show him my letter and after he reads it, he offers to take care of it for about $100 cash but, he says, if it ever goes to court he can not defend me.

Hey, what is another Ben Franklin compared to a 18K write off loss.

About 30 minutes later, I get called into the examiner's office. Low and behold, sitting behind a desk is the same Larry, the red bow tied accountant. He explains that he is a avid horse enthusiast and his family has been involved in the pari-mutual betting business his whole life.

You know what? He did my taxes for years at a nominal charge until he retired. I often met him at the race track where we discussed horses and betting.

Which only proves a smile and taking a chance can turn out well, and that no one can predict the future.


[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Comments (1) | Permalink | Email this post

Wednesday, 12 November 2014

Worry Wart

By Johna Ferguson

Recently, the woman who lives across the hall from me in the retirement home had her room fumigated again for bed bugs. She couldn’t enter her room from early morning until 5PM.

I don’t know where she went; maybe shopping for new things she might have to replace. Whatever, I felt sorry for her but I didn’t think anymore about it. That is until the next night as I was going to start getting ready for bed.

Out of the corner of my eye on the air conditioner under my bedroom window, I spied what I thought was a bug. It was about a quarter of an inch long and brown colored. I went to get a Kleenex to kill it with but it scooted away so fast I couldn’t squash it.

I didn’t know what kind of bug it was but I wondered if it had come across the hall from the fumigated room and decided it had found a nice friendly home to invade.

I looked around for any others and then spied it again; it had just gone down the side of the air conditioner. Again I reached to smash it but again it was too quick for me. I guess as we get older our reflexes slow down like our minds.

I headed to the closet to get my nightie and there it was on the floor in front of my dresser. At first I thought it was a small twig but when I went to put my foot down on it, it fled away quick as lightening.

I decided I didn’t want to get into my bed with that thing around, so I went down to the main desk. Incidentally it was 9:30PM.

Young Chris was on duty and Lawrence was talking to him. I explained my problem and asked if I could sleep in a guest room but they said they didn’t have the right to grant that wish. Instead, Lawrence said he would come up and see what he could find.

He got a flashlight and up we went to my room. At that point, I was glad I hadn’t gotten into my nightie yet.

He asked about the size and color and told me it definitely wasn’t a bed bug as they were tiny, black bugs. He shone his light into every crack and crevice in my bedroom but found nothing.

Then he took my mattress off to examine under and on it, but he said no; I didn’t have bed bugs, thankfully. He told me to see if I found that one or any others to let management know.

I went to bed but slept fitfully, dreaming off and on about bugs around and crawling all over me. In the morning, I decided to check all around again but didn’t find that bug. I did however find some tiny small black dots on my marble windowsills.

I didn’t know what they were but knew I didn’t want any of them either. I put four in a paper cup with a tinfoil covering the top to take them down to the front desk to see if anyone knew what they were.

The clerk on duty looked at them and told me they were baby ants and she would notify maintenance and someone would come and look at them soon.

By then I had added a few more from the two other marble windowsills. I added them to the paper cup and only then did I discover that they had tiny wings and occasionally could fly around the cup. What could they be?

They only were on the windowsills or at least that was the only place I could find any. Whenever I saw one I kept shoving it gently into the same paper cup but always covering it with a glass coaster so none would get loose in the room.

I must admit my sleep didn’t get much better for now I have two kinds of bugs to worry about. I am hopeful now, after the weekend, someone will come look at my cup with many bugs and then do something about them. If not, I will have to ask to be moved to another room but I like mine so much, I hope that won’t happen.

Now a month later and two spray jobs, the room seems empty of those strange dwellers, whatever they were, and thankfully I am sleeping peacefully at night as I hope everyone else is on the 6th floor.

But I wonder now if I should worry about what the spray contained?


[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Comments (4) | Permalink | Email this post

Tuesday, 11 November 2014

The Last Road Trip

By Marcy Belson

We cheated. We flew to San Diego, we didn't drive the I5 south.

Then we waited for the van to take us to the offsite rental car agency. And waited. An hour or more later the van pulled up and we, along with another family of four, piled in.

The other man sat up front and quizzed the driver. In how many cities were they doing business? Answer, many, in Mexico. How long had they been in business? Answer, seven months.

My husband and I glanced at each other. No cause for alarm. Ha.

At the agency counter, another man informed the other family of the company policy. Buy their insurance or leave a $800 security deposit. After a lengthy conversation, the other family bought the insurance. We didn't.

We asked and they agreed to drive us to another nearby agency. The driver took us and our luggage, drove over the curb and dumped us on the sidewalk.

What a great way to start our trip. The second rental agency had us on the road in less than 15 minutes. I'm not naming these agencies because I don't want to be sued. But the second one was great. Enterprise.

We spent a week on the road. It was a long week but not as long as driving the length of Oregon and California.

I went with a couple of things I wanted to do. Eat a special quesadilla, go to Rubio's for a fish taco, take a rock to the cemetery for my friend, Harriette.

I didn't get the food requests and I lost the rock for Harriette but I did go to a couple of cemeteries to pay my respects. I have the ant bites to remember it by.

It was our last road trip. My next story will be about driving on the L.A. freeways and toll roads. Yes, toll roads with no attendants. That's all you really need to know.

So long, California.


[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Comments (1) | Permalink | Email this post

Monday, 10 November 2014

Old Dentistry – The Way It Was

By Old Bill Weatherstone who blogs at The Diesel Gypsy

When I was a young hellion (so they told me) in public school, grade 5, I was having a bad time with tooth aches.

In Toronto, the school system had a dentist on duty at Earl Grey public school for those who could not afford one. I was at that time going to Bruce public school about 10 blocks away.

My time there was always at 1:00PM and when finished, I was allowed to go home directly, cutting off two-and-a-half hours of class time. That was my only incentive to go to the infamous torture chamber.

The first session was a mind killer. I was told to sit in the chair, lean back, open wide and hang on.

The guy then picked up the drill (powered by small ropes and pulleys) and went directly to work on me. No pain killers of any kind just started drilling with chips and smoke flying out of my mouth.

After I grabbed his hand and let out a blood curdling yell, he stopped for a moment and in a gruff, browned-off voice told me that I could not feel it and then carried on.

It was only a few years after the war and I can only now assume that he was straight out of the army dentist corps. No experience required.

After a number of sessions with this butcher, I was glad to stay in class. The two-and-a-half hour free time was not worth it. Besides, he damaged most of my teeth in the process.

They were in bad shape and all I could do when attacked with a tooth ache would be to get it pulled.

In 1950, there was a specialist, Dr. Liggett, in Toronto who ran a tooth pulling enterprise.

His office was on the second floor of a building on the corner of Broadview and Gerrard across from the infamous Don Jail where the local hangings took place when required giving one the thought of which would be the most painless?

I used to transfer from one street car to another and with transfer in hand would climb the stairs to his office. Approaching the reception desk, I passed a row of plain hard chairs along the wall with patients waiting their turn.

When I asked what the charge would be, she answered $3 per tooth or 2 for $5. Extractions were their only service.

The line moved along at an extremely fast pace and my turn was only a few moments away.

Ushered through a small door, I was placed in a small cubical, one of three. It was like a men’s washroom from the 1890s with dark brown tongue and groove wood walls, only wide enough for the chair and a tank of medical gas.

The dentist would step in, put the gas over your face for a few seconds to just stun you, then grab the tooth and pull it out before moving to the next stall and repeating the procedure. You were only stunned enough that you could not fight back.

One of the nurses would guide me out to the exit which when you got to the bottom of the stairs, found yourself in the back alley spitting blood. You then used your street car transfer and carried on without missing a beat.

Compared with today’s dentistry, I am sort of glad it is all behind me.

With the super technology, x-rays, sonar scanners, form-fitting chairs, soft music plus three rooms of unknown gizmos, it is now a painless experience. So I’ve been told.

It just leaves me to wonder if these new modern dentists have been trained in resuscitation. After receiving the bill for work done, I can only assume a heart attack would follow.


[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Comments (5) | Permalink | Email this post

Friday, 07 November 2014

Down in Whoville

By Dani Ferguson Phillips of The Cataract Club

What happens to those cute little baby girls we bring home from the hospital? You know, the ones so sweet and cuddly. And who can get enough of their sweet baby smell?

What happens to those adoring looks from our toddlers as they reach up to us with their trusting little arms? What happens the moment they turn 12 and hormones start raging and they turn into she-devils in disguise?

I'm not an authority on parenting but I'd like to think I learned a few things as the mother of twin girls. Because I recognized almost immediately that I was outnumbered by a formidable alliance, I knew I'd have to get my bluff in early.

It has been 31 years since I had two pre-teen daughters and was on the verge of sending them to a convent. My only hope of revenge was for them to get their payback with 12 year olds of their own but they foiled my plan by avoiding parenthood.

Since I cannot hand down my sage advice to them I will share it with the entire world.

My plan was created one day after a very stressful morning of trying to get my 12-year-old twin daughters out the door without drawing blood from one another.

After I had sounded the alarm more than once that I was on the verge of taking drastic measures if I received one more flippant “Well, duh” as a response to a civilized question posed by their mother I decided to simply wait for my opportunity to illustrate the consequences.

I had finally had enough of the constant bickering over clothes and who “called” what in advance. Blows would ensue when one twin emerged from her room wearing the same outfit as her sister. This offense was grounds for all out warfare if she refused to take off the obvious reference to their status as twins. According to them dressing alike was a sure fire ticket to being a dork!

After reaching my proverbial limit, I waited until everyone had left for the day and I called a dear friend and asked to borrow her truck. I then proceeded to call a storage facility whereby I rented a cubicle for one month and then proceeded to unload each of my daughter’s rooms of their contents.

I was like the Grinch who stole Christmas. I took everything, all their clothes and their bobbles and left holes in the walls where the pictures had hung. I cleaned out their rooms as quick as a flash. Why, I even took their jars of cold cash.

What I left was one blanket, a pillow and one change of clothes and then I quietly closed their doors. Oh, and I made sure the change of clothes were matching outfits.

I could hardly wait for 3:30PM to arrive and the little darlings to return from school. The only thing I forgot was the camera to immortalize the looks on their faces when they opened their bedroom doors.

I had left a letter to each daughter sitting on her remaining meager pile of belongings. It was a list of the requirements that would have to be met BEFORE I would return their possessions (which I reminded them were graciously provided by me in the first place).

  1. Chores done immediately after school followed by homework
  2. No bickering with each other and
  3. No backtalk.>/li>

I had a calendar on the wall with seven days highlighted in red. If any of these three rules were broken it would add another day to the punishment.

So, they sat in their rooms (staring at their blank walls) and discussing just how crazy they thought their mother was while I enjoyed the peace and quiet. Every day it was blissful. I'd come home to a clean house and total solitude as the alliance withdrew to their rooms in an attempt to punish me with their silence.

Ahhhhhh it hurt so good! It was the most blissful seven days of my life. Better than Club Med.

Every day the girls had to wash their outfits for school the next day. By the end of the week, they had started making jokes about their twin attire and all the attention it had received at school. Oh my, the little darlings were bonding!

On the last day of their sentence, I waited until they were at school and proceeded to put their rooms back together. My mission was accomplished. I won't say that they never tried to push the limit with me again but I will say that by the time I got to the second warning they wouldn't risk the consequences.

They just weren't quite sure WHAT their crazy mother would do and that's just the way I liked it.


[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Comments (8) | Permalink | Email this post